


Senses

by PeniG



Series: Akashic Records [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy, Body Dysmorphia, Other, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness, a bit for everybody, also known as run-on sentences, always a risk in this fandom sorry, swearing in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeniG/pseuds/PeniG
Summary: Aziraphale and Crawly are avoiding each other in Jerusalem, but you can't expect a demon to ignore it when his familiar adversary is joined by an intruder angel. In an offputtingly handsome and gender-inappropriate body. In a wineshop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The songs used here are cherrypicked bits and pieces of The Song of Songs/Song of Solomon, the book you will never, ever find covered in an ordinary Protestant Sunday School class. Serious religious scholars, Jewish and Christian, have developed symbolic readings demonstrating that it’s really about the relationship between humanity and God, but speaking as a Methodist-raised bookworm who became an agnostic when she read the Bible straight through - this is probably the supreme erotic lyric of all time. You get into an argument with a Fundamentalist who claims to take the Bible literally, who claims it’s a simple document with no complicated hidden meanings, each word meaning exactly what it says and all dictated directly from God to some scribe somewhere? You haul this book of the Bible out and throw it at his head. Read literally, this is hot stuff, y’all. It’s probably disrespectful and blasphemous for me to use it in this way, but it reads like several different folk songs strung together and adapted for formal performance, there is no way most of it wasn’t sung in taverns before it was ever sung in religious contexts, and anyway I structured the whole work around it, so - there you go. 
> 
> To prevent having to do a lot of retyping and referring back and forth between the big bulky Bible I’m using as reference for this series, I copy-pasted from this site: https://www.esv.org/Song+of+Solomon+1/
> 
> Also, population of Jerusalem:  
https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/biblical-sites-places/jerusalem/ancient-jerusalem/
> 
> Ornias is the demon the Archangel Michael put into the Ring of Solomon to do his bidding.
> 
> In Hebrew tradition, Gadreel is sometimes given as the name of the deceiver of Eve, unless the internet lies to me.
> 
> I am not colorblind and might have all kinds of stuff wrong here. Feel free to correct me in the comments.

Yellow was the most elusive color. Ephemeral gleams and shimmers, dancing with dustmotes; or a heavy smooth texture weighting the arms of wealthy men; or a glitter around an ankle. And all of these could be gray, too, could be silver, unless he could also feel them: Was the ray warm or cool? Was the metal heavy and pure or lighter and faintly tarnished? Only one yellow was always yellow, a sharp smell and a heavy dimpled weight, an acid bite upon a tongue too insensitive to savor foods as he knew, by demonstration, they could be savored; a thick rind and the memory of a voice: _Try this one. It’s a bit tart for me, except as an accent with other flavors, but at least it shouldn’t be too delicate for you._ He never ate anymore if he could get away with it; but he knew a citron when he saw one, knew it to be vibrant yellow, because the same voice had assured him of it.

Green was a class of smells: leaves, grass, growing grain. He didn’t get much green these days, now he spent so much time in Jerusalem. The high-end merchant from a distant land (where _everyone has yellow eyes; snakes have blue eyes, what are you talking about?_) he often presented himself as could have afforded a garden, but he was antsy about maintaining a household, and sometimes he wanted to be the merchant’s sister, or a servant, or someone else. A fixed abode was too confining. So he kept his few things in a hivelike house where so many people came and went that no one noticed that no one claimed the contents of one room, about which they had all forgotten, nor whether a serving maid went in or a merchant came out. He could, in need, change his clothes, which were only variants of skin, between one step and the next. No one noticed him, unless he wanted them to. If he needed a garden, if the glares and noise and pounding desires of the city stretched his nerves to breaking point, he could get into one and sit beneath a tree listening to the sweet green warblings of birds until his limbs stopped twitching and his spine relaxed.

Red was a range of flavors and bouquets drunk from fired clay, from silver, from wood, once in awhile (he had done plenty of business in the Palace of Solomon) even from gold. Thin and sour, robust and sweet, sludgy with dregs, clear and clean, it all sublimated into a burn in the back of his sinuses, into a glow that drove off the gnatlike circling cares that assailed him when he had no one to talk to. He never had anyone to talk to anymore, but he had red wine and the fellowship of the winejar, so many winejar fellows over the centuries, he could pile them up to block out the sound of the only voice he listened for, the one he had first heard, fretful and polite, in the youth of the world.

Red was blood, too, and battle banners, but that was nothing to do with him. Red was wine and his favorite color, though he could no longer see it.

Blue was The One True Color, the one that leaped into his eye, popping off the scarf of a woman, glittering on a man’s ring, jumping out of the ambient shades of white and gray and black and brown, forcing him to rein his heart back as it leaped in response. He never looked up in the daytime to see the overarching blue staring down at him. But if, as he sometimes did, he met a shattering clear blue in a pair of eyes on the street, instead of the liquid darkness normal to eyes, he never backed down from them. Always they turned away first. Often they belonged to some traveler unnerved to meet an unblinking amber stare, and he would let them go, unless some shift in them told him this was a promising mark. But sometimes they lit up; sometimes they sparkled; sometimes they crinkled at the corners; sometimes they said: _Oh, there you are, so lovely to see you again_; before the rest of the face caught up to who they were seeing, and shut them down, acknowledging him with a cold nod before vanishing into the noisy, colorless crowds of Jerusalem.

He was the Serpent of Eden. He would back down from no man or woman or demon or angel’s gaze; his amber eyes would meet the bluest eyes of heaven, equal to equal, and never, ever turn away - _if_ they would stand up to him. Which they never did.

Nor did he go out of his way to avoid the market where an assumed northerner had set himself up as a scribe, in a booth scarcely wider than himself, between a bent old crone selling the most delectable skewers of goat meat in the city and a baker's oven.

He didn’t go out of his way to go past the place, either. Why should he? He chose his routes regardless of where anyone but his assigned marks would be. When seeking out potential sinners on his own, he chose the highest places his ability to fake fine clothes and fine manners allowed him to access. What would be the point of poking among the hovels of the poor where the scribe labored, smiling kindly at everyone, savoring food a snake’s tongue couldn’t even taste, playing board games and discussing scripture with stuffy shabby_ ignorant_ rabbis who didn’t even know an angel when they saw one?

He didn’t need to think about this now. He didn’t need to think at all. He needed to find a wineshop and some beautiful red wine.

He missed the green smell, but otherwise Jerusalem was a fine place to work, and an even finer one in which to lounge looking for trouble, which was work-adjacent, anyway. Whatever diversion you wanted, you needn’t walk long to find it, whether music or games of chance or wrestling or dancing or the complex human spectacle of lives lived half on the street, all the fighting and courting and haggling, rejoicing and mourning, making and breaking that all humans did everywhere, relentlessly, as if the world would stop turning if they stopped living at full speed for even a moment; as, maybe, it would.

Tonight he wanted someplace full of the rich and well-off whose sins were too comfortable and wanted stirring up, so he walked toward the Temple, the building of which he had watched with interest. He’d learned to keep his aura tucked in almost congruent with his body, so tight that even humans, who generally couldn’t sense auras, were sometimes unnerved by his lack of one. All the same, the Scribe had kept turning up at the Temple, too, as if he knew the Serpent would be there, but had never spoken to him except for the one time, when they’d accidentally (yes, accidentally, because _one_ of them had self-respect thank you very much and the other, lost in thought until the last minute, had been genuinely startled) run into each other at the door.

_Leave it alone, please._

_What do you take me for? Why should I disturb such a glorious monument to the sins of Heaven! Vanity, Pride, Avarice - look around you, angel! It’s perfection!_

_As usual, you miss the point._

_Do I? Why don’t you explain the point to me over a drink, then? I’m buying._

_Thank you, no. I have, I have an appointment._

He shouldn’t have made the overture. Overtures were for the angel to make, not him.

He should have offered a meal instead of drinks. Damn rookie mistake, not like him at all. How could his bowels be writhing at the thought of the extreme idiocy of the mistake when he didn’t even properly own bowels?

The whole district stank of sanctity tonight, must be a Holy Day or something, enough to make any snake squirm, but that wouldn't drive him off, not when there was such sweet music coming from such a posh wineshop, so close to the Temple its shadow must fall on it at certain times of day. Not tonight, though, tonight the stars bloomed white and blurry and the whole world was colorblind.  
  
_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!_  
_For your love is better than wine;_  
_your anointing oils are fragrant;_  
_your name is oil poured out;_  
_therefore virgins love you._  
_Draw me after you; let us run._  
_The king has brought me into his chambers._

The vocal soloist was excellent; the zitherist and the chorus of drinkers a little less so, but he could go further and fare worse and he was thirsty.

As he paid with silver, a laugh turned his day-warmed blood to fire and then to ice, but he turned away from the server casually. His eyes found the source under a swinging lamp at the opposite end of a table from a party of wealthy young layabouts primed and ready to spend the night Up To No Good. The Scribe, sprucer than usual, in what were no doubt his best robe and turban, focused his attention on the person beside him - no, hang on, no wonder the area reeked so, that was another angel, formed like a young man (despite the feminine quality of the inhabiting spirit) in the prime of life and health and strength, who talked and gestured and leaned in confidingly, eliciting another, quieter laugh and a good-natured shake of the head, _No no you mustn’t say such things even if they’re true and hilarious -_

That was _his_ headshake, dammit. No one said true hilarious forbidden things to his angel but _him_. It wasn’t _his_ fault he hadn’t had a chance to say them for so long!

Leaning oh-so-carelessly against the bar, blocking other customers, he relaxed his habitual hold upon his aura; but his angel had already felt the gaze. Tension entered the rounded shoulders before the blue eyes darted toward him and widened without crinkling or sparkling or instinct of welcome. They had bags under them, lines of care as well as laughter. The shoulders made a subtle shift, as if to interpose an invisible protective wing - not between the Serpent and himself, but between the Serpent and his really quite off-puttingly handsome companion. No real human had features _that_ regular! It’d be doing her a favor to tweak the nose crooked, scatter some pockmarks and blackheads across the smooth planes of the cheeks, offset one of the liquid dark eyes from the other. He knew this intruder, too, from somewhere long ago and far away, and she knew him back, her eyes finding him in the wake of his own angel’s reaction, widening in horror. Youth leaned urgently toward Scribe, all hilarity gone; but it wasn’t the _demon_ who had caused the dismay in those blue eyes! No, their first reaction to him, always always always, was welcome! The _intruder_ was the one making his angel uncomfortable here, and that would not stand!

He’d already started walking when the neat plump hand patted the large strong one reassuringly, which it had no business to do. As a matter of professional honor, he must prevent that reassurance from taking hold. Long swaying slithery strides, random blocking of the line of sight, no one not angelic would notice a thing; he had this. Step - female, respectable, hair decently covered; step - female, harlot, red hair flowing free; step - male, merchant; step - male, youth; step - amalgam in one body of male and female signals that worked _so well_ to freak out this intruder on his, on his_ city_; step - he was male and smirking and _oh_, the blue eyes were flustered and trying to be stern! He couldn’t read Aramaic or Hebrew but he could read those eyes: _Oh, we’re doing this? All right, we’re doing this, but we’ll do it right, none of your nonsense._

“Hello, Crawly. Behave yourself.” The language of the North Sea, which would, in the mouths of obvious foreigners like they two, be both unintelligible and natural-sounding to those around them, and a greeting after the northern manner, rising for a double armclasp: No Weapons Here, We Meet in Fellowship.

“Hello, Aziraphale. When have I _ever_ not behaved myself?”

“You mean, other than just now? Crawly, this is a former student of mine -“

“Oh, we know each other. Hello, Hylochiel. Catch any fallen stars lately?”

“Hello, Gadreel.” Hylochiel shifted her young man’s body, and shifted it again, as if comfort were foreign to it.

“Manners, please,” said Aziraphale. “You know that’s not his name now. Crawly, you’re welcome to sit down if you’ll call Truce.”

“Me? Is it for the one who’s outnumbered to call Truce, then? _I_ never flaunted another demon around _your_ turf.”

Aziraphale’s face did...a number of things...and then his voice for the first time in literal ages Did the Right Thing. “There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start,” he said, in a tone of annoyance which was Crawly’s exclusive property. “But the Temple District is hardly your ‘turf’ any more than it’s mine, and I don’t recall getting up into your face when you were entertaining Ornias.”

“You knew about Ornias?”

“Of course I did! How do you think Michael found out? Now, is it Truce or isn’t it?”

Crawly laughed in sheer delight. “All right, angel, all points to you. I only came in to get a drink. Truce.” He slid himself deftly into the space Aziraphale had vacated to greet him - which, since Hylochiel was at the end of the bench, meant that when Aziraphale sat down, Crawly was in between them. “Mind you, I thought Michael was overkill.”

_My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh that lies between my breasts._   
_My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms in the vineyards of Engedi._   
_Behold, you are beautiful, my love;_   
_behold, you are beautiful;_   
_your eyes are doves._

The soloist’s voice soared and half the patrons joined in as Aziraphale sat and dragged his winecup over from in front of Crawly. “Michael is always overkill. I notified Gabriel of a new player in town, as per protocol, and in she swooped.”

“She’d been looking for an excuse to get near Solomon about that time, as I remember,” said Hylochiel, pulling herself in upon herself a bit to create space on the bench, into which Crawly promptly sprawled. “You should know, though, that putting Ornias into a ring was _Aziraphale’s_ idea.”

“A human storyteller’s idea, actually. I only passed it on.”

Crawly drank, giving Aziraphale the side-eye. “I suppose you hoped I’d be trapped in there, too.”

“Oh, I knew I wouldn’t get shot of _you_ so easily!” The eyes crinkled and the Smile blossomed. “But let’s not talk shop, please! You two used to work together on the stars, I take it?”

“We both worked on stars,” said Hylochiel. “Working together wasn’t exactly his strong suit, back in the day. I’m guessing Ornias found out it still isn’t.”

Aziraphale looked pained, which was not acceptable, and was clearly _Hylochiel’s_ fault. Crawly knew (he always knew; in the same way that normal human vision knew red from black) that his angel wanted Crawly to stay, Hylochiel to be civil to him, everyone to have a nice time, and nobody anywhere to get hurt. Crawly was going to give him that, even if Hylochiel’s equally visible desire to drive a demon away conflicted with it. Without Hell looking on, he could be _so much nicer_ than an intruding angel!

“What can I say?” Crawly asked, turning ever so slightly to meet Hylochiel’s distrustful gaze, and if the motion also leaned his shoulder into Aziraphale’s all the better. “It’s my curse to be surrounded by people who insist on working harder when I want to work smarter. What’re you doing in town, anyway? Did I miss something?”

Hylochiel appeared to be not quite choking on something. Demonic effrontery, possibly. The question went a heartbeat too long unanswered, and Aziraphale scrambled to cover. “Oh, no, Hylochiel was on her way to her next assignment and stopped off to give me some messages from head office. She’s ahead of schedule and had never seen the Temple, so I gave her a tour.”

Crawly turned leisurely back to him. “Isn’t that breaking the rules? No women past a certain point?”

“Excuse me, do I look like a woman to you?” Hylochiel sounded exasperated; but _not_, Crawly noted with interest, _at him._

“Yup.” He drank. “A woman stuffed into a man suit.”

“Since she’s neither, and the body issued her will pass as male to superficial inspection, it wasn’t a problem.” Aziraphale tutted into his wine. “I wish the quartermaster’s office would be a little more - flexible. Hylochiel was telling me that many of the latest run of guardian bodies are, are intransigent.”

“They always were too stable by half. Comes of being manufactured wholesale instead of homemade.”

“Yes, but I can at least alter myself enough to talk down a suicidal girl. Hylochiel can’t. She’s stuck this way till she discorporates or the quartermaster authorizes alterations.”

Crawly studied the oversculpted body with disfavor. “Yeah, if that turned up in some poor maiden’s chamber she wouldn’t _have_ to kill herself. She’d die of mortification. Or possibly stoning. Sorry to see you stuck like that! If you want any bodymodding tips -“

Hylochiel recoiled. “No offense, but I want nothing of your gift!”

Crawly held up a conciliatory hand. “Relax, I’m off the clock. Aziraphale, tell her she’s nothing to fear from me.”

Aziraphale leaned across him. He smelled good, and Crawly had to resist the urge to take a deep breath, or tickle the wisp of pale hair that had escaped the turban, near the ear. “You really don’t, dear girl! The trick is, to bear in mind whether a Truce is in effect or not. He’ll make you lose track, if he can.”

_And I always can_, thought Crawly. _But it doesn’t matter, not with _you_, angel, like we ever bothered calling Truce in the old days! I would never hurt _you_, and this one’s under your protection, got it, don’t know what you need to pal around with her for when you could have me anytime but here we are and nothing to fear from me, nothing._ He smirked at Hylochiel, who on a different occasion might have plenty to fear, but for now he was an almost-innocuous demonic ex-coworker with a Truce.

_I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys._   
_As a lily among brambles, so is my love among the young women._   
_As an apple tree among the trees of the forest,_   
_so is my beloved among the young men._   
_With great delight I sat in his shadow,_   
_and his fruit was sweet to my taste._

“Mind you, that stunt you pulled on the way over was _not_ kind,” Aziraphale was saying primly as he returned himself to his upright posture, elbows tucked in, back straight as his recently-acquired scholar’s hunch allowed.

“Well, how was I to know it’d look pointed to her? I don’t get the latest heavenly gossip like _some_ people. For all I knew I was walking into an ambush; might as well do it with style! Not of your will, I know, but if Heaven had told you to jump me, I’m not such an idiot as to think you’d put your preferences ahead of your orders.”

“Oh, _really_, now! An ambush? Amidst all these people?”

“She can still fly, can’t she? I had to assume she could whisk me out of here in an eyeblink.” He tossed Hylochiel one of his more ambiguously sincere smiles. “If you can’t, sorry, sucks to be you and you have my sympathy. Some practical joker got me stuck mid-morph, awhile back, couldn’t control my appearance for a week, and that was bad enough. Couldn’t walk or crawl properly. Body dysmorphia with mobility problems? _Blech_.”

Aziraphale looked appalled. “Oh, my! Is _that_ where you were the week the Temple was dedicated? I was sure you’d put something together for that and when I couldn’t find you I thought you’d successfully distracted me from something elsewhere. I was so anxious about,” _about you_, said blue eyes; “about what I’d let you get up to!”

_I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, _   
_by the gazelles or the does of the field,_   
_that you not stir up or awaken love_   
_until it pleases._

Crawly downed his drink as warmth spread throughout him. Good wine, this, working already. “Well, you’re off the hook! I’d had a little surprise planned” (he had planned nothing; hadn’t felt like it, somehow) “but that practical joker wrecked it and left the field to you for a solid week, so you can take that as a win.” He tilted Aziraphale’s wine cup before Aziraphale could say anything about treating their jobs as a game. “What’re you two drinking, here?” He flicked a tongue out to taste the air, enjoying Hylochiel’s start of dismay and Aziraphale’s tut of disapproval. “Hmm, yeah, that’ll do. Your taste in wine’s still not as good as mine, but that’ll do.” He caught the eye of an attendant. “Hey, you there, jar of this sweet stuff!”

“We didn’t plan on drinking with you all night,” said Aziraphale.

“Then I’ll finish the jar after you leave. I’m paying - no skin off your nose. But c’mon, angel, an_gels_, sorry, what else’ve you got to do? Secret angel business? Should’ve done that before you went sightseeing at the Temple. We don’t even have to talk if you don’t like to, just listen to the music.”

“Oh, you’re incorrigible.”

“Demon. Kind of the point.”

Aziraphale brought out his company manners again. “What do you say, Hylochiel? We can go elsewhere if you like; or if you and Crawly want to, want to talk shop about stars or anything, you needn’t worry about my being bored. And, you know, if he’s sitting here drinking with us he’s not out making mischief. I know _Gabriel_ wouldn’t understand -”

Hylochiel made a sound that took him right back to the build teams, when the design team had changed the parameters on them again and hadn’t extended the deadline. “No, this is waay down in the dregs of ‘Earth’s not like that!’ If you say it’s all right I’m sure it is. Only I can’t imagine doing this with any of the adversaries I’ve encountered on a job. Not that I’ve never had to make a compromise in order for either of us to do anything besides trip each other up, but - none of them could be expected to hold a Truce long enough to finish a cup, much less a jar.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re scared to,” Crawly informed her from his cozy in-between spot, one knee bouncing close enough to Aziraphale’s thigh that black brushed pale cream, the other stretched out under the table to rest a foot on the opposite bench and guard their privacy. “You gotta give ‘em some kind of story they can tell any bigger demon that comes along. Being too friendly with Heaven’s agents’ll get you peeled right down to nothing, if you’re not clever enough. And most demons _aren’t_ clever enough, I’m sorry to say! But if you supply the story and the wine, they’ll take a breather. Whoever they field against you is as frustrated with Beelzebub’s rules as you are with Gabriel’s.” Their winejar arrived, and he paid the attendant, feeling Aziraphale curing the poor kid’s imminent falling arches. Because of course he did.

“Peeled down to nothing sounds bad,” said Hylochiel. “You’re quite sure you have a story that would save _you_?”

“Squeezed between two angels, confounding them with my brilliant verbal skills till they finally retreat stuffed full of misinformation? No sweat.” He grinned. “I got away with splitting Alpha Centauri, didn’t I?”

“You did that _on purpose_?”

Aziraphale made a small noise of glee. He loved this story, which was why Crawly’d brought it up. Hylochiel had technical questions, which allowed him to explain and make their vessels into teaching aids to demonstrate how he’d solved the problem outlined in the discarded design documents he’d “accidentally” gotten mixed up with the specs, ultimately making his and Aziraphale’s winecups orbit each other in time to the music.

_My beloved is mine, and I am his; he grazes among the lilies._   
_Until the day breathes and the shadows flee, turn, my beloved, _   
_be like a gazelle or a young stag on cleft mountains._

_I came to my garden, my sister, my bride,_   
_I gathered my myrrh with my spice,_   
_I ate my honeycomb with my honey,_   
_I drank my wine with my milk._

_Eat, friends, drink, and be drunk with love!_

Hylochiel’s body did not hold its liquor well, becoming flushed and hilarious only two cups into a thorough mutual roasting of the other members of the work crew they’d shared, building the solar system. The layabouts at the other end of the table, by contrast, waxed obnoxious, abusing the harried attendant for not serving fast enough. Crawly exchanged a look with Aziraphale, and they snapped their fingers in unison under the table. The most silent and threatening layabout fell abruptly asleep. The loudest shattered his cup and spilled wine all over the fine embroidery of his sleeve. Hylochiel joined in the general laughter and applause at this mishap, and Crawly used the noise as cover to say into Aziraphale’s ear, as he hooked their little fingers together under the table: “Admit it. You missed me.”

All the fascinating little movements in Aziraphale’s face froze in place, and he gently withdrew his hand to place it flat upon the table. Crawly choked on his own heart, wishing the words back into his mouth. _Idiot, idiot, idiot, that was _not_ the right time for a verbal push!_

Hylochiel burped. Aziraphale stood up, the discord between his clearly visible desire to stay and his actions jarring like a string breaking on a zither. “My dear girl, I think it’s time you sobered up.”

“One more song?” Hylochiel looked up at him with pleading limpid eyes dark as wine, wanting another song, another body, and to please Aziraphale _which was not her fucking job._

Aziraphale held out the hand to her that Crawly had touched, which had fingersnapped in unison with him. His voice was the relaxed, intimate tone that had belonged exclusively to Crawly for almost a thousand years. “I’m afraid we shouldn’t. You have to be in the Caucasus by dawn.”

“I’m very ba - baaaaad at sobering_ ulp_.” She swayed as Aziraphale helped her to her feet.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Take my arm. That’s my girl.” He turned to Crawly, and the Tone vanished. “Excuse me for not parting from you properly - you see how it is -“

“Yes,” said Crawly.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, but we really must be going. And - I have no right to ask it, I know -“

_Ask damn you, ask! Give me a chance to give you something, anything!_

“If you could extend the Truce until she leaves the city, I would, I would count myself in your debt.”

Crawly’s mouth was dry. “No debt,” he croaked. “Told you. I’m off the clock. Get her cleared out before she barfs all over you.”

Aziraphale smiled as if afraid of offending him. Hylochiel giggled, sliding down his arm. “Of we go, then. Come, dear girl, you remember how this goes, one foot in front of the other.”

_I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone._   
_My soul failed me when he spoke. I sought him, but found him not;_   
_I called him, but he gave no answer._

_The watchmen found me as they went about in the city;_   
_they beat me, they bruised me, they took away my veil,_   
_those watchmen of the walls._

_I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,_   
_if you find my beloved, that you tell him_   
_I am sick with love._

Crawly watched them, the Scribe tenderly ushering the stumbling Youth between the tables, out into the black dark and the silver (or was it golden?) moonlight, their arms about each other. The waking layabouts finished arguing about what to do with the sleeping one and left him to sleep it off while they departed and the attendant mopped up around him. Crawly filled the cup Aziraphale had been using, and drank from it.

_I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; _   
_he grazes among the lilies._

The attendant collected empties. “Hard to compete with someone who looks like that.”

“What?” Crawly blinked at him, dragging his mind back from a thousand years ago, when he and Aziraphale had gone on their first-ever bender while attending their first-ever wedding party, and figured out how to sober up while everyone else (except the bride and groom) slept themselves to the first-ever hangovers.

“I know it’s not my business,” said the attendant, pretending to mop up nonexistent spills. “But you see a lot in a job like this. The older ones, they get stupid sometimes. For a pretty face. And, you know, shoulders and whatnot. Goes to their heads. But it’s not the sort of thing that lasts. When the young one’s done milking him dry of silver, you’ll get him back. If you still want him. He’ll probably be very humble about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crawly lied.

“Then I’m sorry I spoke out of turn.” The attendant turned to him, cloth over his shoulder, tray laden with cups, cocking his hip in a way that showed off the shape of his ass, and blinked dark liquid eyes. His nose was crooked and his eyes uneven, prettier far than Hylochiel, because the face was his own face. “In the meantime, if you want to distract yourself -“

Crawly blocked the rest of the sentence with his hand. The boy was not offering out of desire. What he wanted was to support his siblings, for which he needed cash, a need sufficient to outweigh a certain amount of distaste for the opportunity he thought he saw. “You’re a little young for me, son. A little young for anybody, honestly.”

The attendant smiled, showing small crooked teeth. “You’d be surprised. I’ll be here all night, if you change your mind. Rates very reasonable.”

“I’m sure they are. Another jar, please.”

He sat staring at the door, open onto the moonlit street, onto the moving shadows and flaring torches of passersby, seeing the long-gone Aziraphale supporting a drunken angel back to his, his _hovel_ stuffed with _stupid_ scrolls that he could read and Crawly couldn’t because _how_ was he supposed to learn to read without Aziraphale around to teach him? _Why_ should he learn to read when he could gain the gist of a written message miraculously by touching it? _Not_ the music, _not_ the rhythm, _not_ the pleasure of it; but the gist.

There among the scrolls Aziraphale would patiently, tenderly talk Hylochiel through the process of sobering up, which _they_ had invented together, in the Tone that he was _only_ supposed to ever use with Crawly. They would talk about _angel things_, protection and and healing and the stupid fucking _will of Heaven_, a Heaven that didn’t even value Aziraphale, that used him and ordered him about and had never heard him laugh. But he and Hylochiel would laugh together at some private Guardian Angel joke -

“Here you go sir,” said the attendant.

Crawly took the fresh jar and overpaid him. “You know, I’ve often wondered how it is, that so few attendants in these places ever figure out that they’re perfectly placed to add a little extra water and take a little wine home with them. For, you know, private resale. Or whatever.”

“That would be stealing,” said the attendant.

“Oh, yeah, commandment about that, isn’t there? Still, it’s easier than - distracting - people. Less wear and tear on a youngster. I mean, it must feel like a proper abomination against the Lord, sometimes, smiling and moaning for people you don’t care two pins about.”

The crooked teeth vanished as the point sank its hooks in. “Sometimes, yes. Will there be anything else, sir?”

Crawly waved him away and set about drinking up the new winejar all by himself. The table filled around him, someone dragged the sleeping layabout outside to throw him in the street, but he curled an arm around the jar and snarled at anyone who tried to talk to him. Not many did. They talked to each other, and drank, and sang the bits of the songs they knew.

_Return, return, O Shulammite, _   
_return, return, that we may look upon you._

He drank the beautiful red wine, and he remembered.

He drank the beautiful red wine, and he swore to himself, very softly, every vile blasphemous oath he knew, the ones he had invented on the way down from Heaven, and the much viler, more satisfying ones that humans had invented in the course of the daily grind.

He drank the beautiful red wine and tried to find a way back to not knowing what he had not known about himself when he walked into the wineshop, when he’d heard the laugh, when he’d sought out and caught those terrible, beautiful, unattainable blue eyes.

_I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, _   
_that you not stir up or awaken love_   
_until it pleases._

Ridiculous, pathetic, idiotic how could he have done anything so appalling, so undemonic, so dangerous, so hopeless, so stupid stupid _stupid_ -

_Was_ it hopeless, though? _Was_ it stupid? Aziraphale _wanted_ to be around Crawly, he could_ not_ be mistaken about that, understanding what others wanted was his bread and butter. And Aziraphale could, he _could_, of _course_ he could, Aziraphale who brought himself near to discorporation to comfort dying sinners and cried because he couldn’t reach them all and healed the wounds of his enemies and gave away flaming swords and loved everyone, he _must_ love Crawly, he loved everyone, he -

He loved_ everyone_.

Even Crawly, yes, sure, but that wasn’t good enough. He should love Crawly _only_, as Crawly loved only _him_, should defy Heaven and Hell too, despise every angel and scorn every demon, to be with him, to work with him, to laugh with him, to enjoy all the good things to eat Crawly could spread before him, to read out loud to him whatever was so damn interesting in those scrolls he labored over night and day, to sit up all night to talk with him and drink with him and let the whole world go by without them and never have to look at or think about or be with _any other being whatsoever_ -

_Set me as a seal upon your heart,_   
_as a seal upon your arm,_   
_for love is strong as death,_   
_jealousy is fierce as the grave._   
_Its flashes are flashes of fire,_   
_the very flame of the LORD._

But Aziraphale wasn’t going to do that, was he? _Should_, hell, all the things Crawly wanted from him were the _opposite_ of what he should do. More to the point, those things weren’t what Aziraphale _wanted_. Crawly knew what he wanted, nobody better! He wanted everybody to be as good as he was, wanted to enjoy Crawly and his angel friends both and pretend that there were no sides.

What Aziraphale did _not_ want was be some demon’s personal property, cut off, discarded by Heaven, Fallen -

_Many waters cannot quench love,_   
_neither can floods drown it._   
_If a man offered for love_   
_all the wealth of his house,_   
_he would be utterly despised._

He was so stupid and so so - what the _hell_ had he done? Like some creep pressing against a girl at a banquet, thinking he was _entitled_, that he had some right to paw her all over because he wanted her. _Ugh!_ He was disgusting and Aziraphale loved him like he loved the rest of disgusting sinful humanity. _One_ fun night, Crawly couldn’t even give him that, could he? No, he had to go and_ wreck_ it all because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, couldn’t keep his big mouth_ shut_ -

All the beautiful red wine was gone and he was not drunk enough, he would _never_ be drunk enough. He pushed through the tables and out to the street, where flat black shadow-people passed to and fro chattering like locusts. The moon rode high and gibbous: the bare boring colorless moon that the least-skilled angels had worked on. Hylochiel had specialized in _gas giants_, big fucking deal, _he’d_ made vast beautiful colorful nebulae, blue giants and red dwarfs, he’d done it _all_, bouncing from build team to build team. He’d tricked Heaven into making a dual Alpha Centauri system viable in the teeth of skepticism and now there were_ lots_ of dual systems out there spinning away _you’re welcome God you ungrateful bitch -_

In a fine tall house he passed, every vessel broke that was capable of breaking, at once.

Unnoticed, he tottered among the people on the street, a respectable woman, a harlot, a merchant, a serving girl, a soldier, passing a different person at each step, _being_ a different person at each step. Shifting, always, flying falling crawling, chasing every shiny new idea like a, like a dog chasing rats, but _he_ knew who he was, the Serpent of Eden, the reason all these people lived scrambling after happiness, instead of in a bland boring paradise guarded by three angelic assholes and one perfect loving angel who deserved _better_.

Music wafted from an open doorway:  
_Sustain me with raisins;_  
_refresh me with apples,_  
_for I am sick with love._  
_His left hand is under my head,_  
_and his right hand embraces me!_

Within three cubits radius, every string on every stringed instrument snapped, every reed on every woodwind split, every drumhead broke upon impact.

What was everybody doing out here at this time of night, anyway?

No, he knew that: the rich looking for a good time, the poor looking to get some money so they could _spend_ it on a good time.

And Aziraphale. Where was he? By now Hylochiel was sober and gone (not, absolutely _not_, lingering in the booth talking and laughing and getting her overengineered wrong-sexed body patted), leaving his angel, who was _not_ his, scribing away, or reading, which come dawn would segue into pottering around the city helping the confused straighten out the legal messes they’d somehow gotten into as attested by scrolls they couldn’t read, healing the sick as much as he dared given Heaven’s sanctimonious reluctance to let him do anything useful, speaking encouragement where needed most, and blocking Crawly’s best ideas, his _worst_ ideas, every move he tried to make tripping and stumbling over Aziraphale’s do-gooding bloodless love for _every damn body_ \- he didn’t know where that sentence was supposed to end, was it even a sentence?

He passed a wineshop, and every drop of wine in it turned to vinegar.

He wanted to throw up, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He wanted to fight God, but no one could find Her. He wanted to break into the Temple and tear the lid off the Ark of the Covenant, maybe that would wake Her up, that was a _great_ idea but he’d lost the Temple, had no idea right now where he was, but here was a wall and he smelled green. Green like the world when it was new, before cities were invented, when it was just him and his blue-eyed angel spitting cherry pits in the Garden of Eden.

The wall was tall and guarded, _so_ tall and _so_ guarded it had to be the Palace. But there was a hole right by his foot, where excess rainwater could drain out into the street. People were the ones not allowed back into the Garden, and_ he_ wasn’t people, he wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t even a demon anymore, demons couldn’t love, not anyone, not anything, let alone an angel, so what was he now but a snake?

A snake who could slip in through the drainage hole and find a sweet green spot in the garden of the Palace of Solomon, and sleep till it didn’t love anymore.

Yes. This was an excellent plan.

\---  
Hylochiel wasn’t kidding when she said she was bad at sobering up. It took most of the walk back to the booth, and Aziraphale had to do most of the work. Once home amid the familiar smells of roast meat, baking, ink, and parchment, he lit a tallow lamp and sat with her awhile, having one more go at adjusting the fabric of her corporation so that she could be more comfortable. “I think this is the best I can do at this stage,” he said. “I expect you’ll be able to do more after you’ve broken it in.”

“If I live that long,” said Hylochiel. “Sooner or later, the quartermaster has to notice that the bodies are getting more breakable, not less. I’ve tried to explain the concept of ‘brittle’ to Corporeal Supply, but they insist they have to follow the specs.”

“Hmm. They mean well.”

“They do.” Hylochiel sighed. Sobering her up had been the right thing to do, obviously, but she was almost as melancholy now as when she’d walked into the booth at noon, and it began to appear that the afternoon of pleasant diversion had ultimately failed in its purpose of cheering her up.

“The trouble is, I think - the problem we can actually deal with right here in the field, I mean - is that you don’t have the hang of breaking down matter,” said Aziraphale, a memory stirring in the back of his brain. “I actually know an exercise for that, hang on a moment -“ He opened up his cabinet of practical oddments, and pulled out a lump of tallow. “Here, take this - not tightly, just enough that your hands will start to warm it. Now, sink your gaze and extend your tactile range into it. Till you can see and feel how it holds together.”

“Like when I’m mending something tricky?”

“Yes, but don’t mend. Examine it for a little. Let me know when you’ve got all the bonds.”

Hylochiel held the lump against her solar plexus, which he remembered from class was the most comfortable locus for her. His own was divided between his hands, and so was Crawly’s. “I’ve got them,” she said.

“If you wanted to make the tallow harder, what would you do?”

“Push the bonds together to pack them tighter.”

“And if you wanted to make it softer, what would you do?”

“Pull them apart, of course.”

“Yes, of course, but _why_ is it of course? When pulling is harder to do than pushing? Shove between the bonds to push them away from each other, see what happens.”

“But that’s not how it works!”

“Isn’t it? Prove me wrong!”

“All right, I - oh!” The tallow splashed into goo, in her hands and all over the front of her garment. Dismay gave way almost at once to laughter. “What a mess!” She pulled, and held a lump of solid tallow again; but still had a grease stain on her garment.

“You did that very well! You can probably get most of that stain out by pushing it back into the lump, too, if you do it fast enough. Next time, don’t push quite so hard. Practice on inert things a little each day, and after awhile you’ll have enough fine control to work on the bonds in your corporation. And eventually, you’ll have enough to use the technique on humans.”

“Why would I want to do it to a human? It would hurt them!”

“Haven’t you ever needed to shatter a blood clot? Or unknit scar tissue? Or expel a fetus to save the mother?”

The grease stain was nearly invisible on the garment now, easily covered by an illusion patch. Hydrochiel gazed into the tallow, and it slumped, then solidified; softened, then hardened. “It’s still harder than mending.”

“It always will be. That’s down to our basic nature and can’t be altered.”

Softer, harder. “How did you even figure this out?”

Dangerous ground, here, but - she’d known Crawly as an angel. She’d followed Aziraphale’s lead in the wineshop. She’d even let her guard down enough to drink to excess. If he was ever to have this conversation, this was his chance. “Crawly taught me.”

The tallow solidified so much it shrank by half. Hylochiel set the lump down beside her on the bench. “What?”

Aziraphale wished the words back into his mouth and tried to think of a way to huddle them out of sight, but his brain was already in panic mode and he didn’t have a lie prepared and anyway, this wasn’t _about_ him avoiding censure it was about _helping Crawly_. He licked his lips. “When we, long ago, we spent, we were, we both had some generalized assignments in the same area and ran up against each other constantly. The population was, was much lower then, so we were forced to, to work out, to accommodate each other to a certain extent. To be civil in front of the humans, so as not to, not to - look, the only time we ever tried to, to banish each other we nearly scared a poor woman into a miscarriage! It took both of us to save the baby and then we could never go back to that farm, not till everyone who’d witnessed it died!”

“Wait, Crawly helped you save a baby?”

“He doesn’t_ like_ it when people suffer! His whole method is based on finding out what people want and encouraging them to sin to get it. And he doesn’t, biology is _not_ his strong suit, at all, and mending is as hard for him as breaking is for us, but when a demon discorporates, they don’t fill out paperwork and get a new issue, they gather all the matter of their corporation again and, within certain limits, rebuild themselves. _I_ can have functional breasts or whatever, but_ Crawly’s_ been able to change back and forth between serpentine and humaniform and lose or gain mass at will for as long as I’ve known him, and he’s been learning steadily since. You saw for yourself, when he, when that, when he _showed off_ while coming to greet us. There’s a certain basic nature he can’t circumvent, and neither can I, that’s why his eyes remain like that and and his hips and legs do the, the _thing_ -“

“And_ you’ve_ helped _him_? Have you lost your senses?”

“We’ve spent a lot of time under Truce, and we’ve learned a lot from each other. Or, we used to. Circumstances change, and the last time was, was well before the Flood.”

“Oh, good, so you’re _not_ meeting him for drinks and gossip once a week. I’m _so_ happy to hear that!” She meant it, too, not a trace of the sarcasm his accumulated centuries had taught him to detect. She was having trouble, in her ill-fitting body, settling into body language, but he could tell her dominant emotion was fear on his behalf. “Wait, when Alaudiel saw you banishing him back to Hell when you were retrieved from the Flood -“

“Tsk. I _told_ her not to make a fuss about that! She was assuming. I barely had the strength to climb the ladder, let alone banish anyone. He’d been helping me stay afloat, far longer than was wise for him. I was afraid somebody’d smite him or, or something and it just, it would’ve been -”

“What was he even _doing_ there?”

“Trying to rescue children.”

“Oh. Well. Um. I suppose, since _we_ reaped all the collateral damage -“

“They weren’t _collateral damage._ They were _children_. And Crawly likes children. Though I’ve no doubt that saving innocent souls so he can tempt them to sin later and lure them into the, into Hell’s side of the ledger is the sort of story he’d spin if he had to cover himself from his masters.”

Hylochiel examined her strong, graceful, intolerably smooth hands. “Or. He might spin them that story, because it was _true_.”

Azirphale leaned back, gave her space. “What was Gadreel like?”

“He’s not - I didn’t - Nobody knew him well, you see.”

“Why not?”

“He was a strain to work with. Bouncing around between being perfectionist about one bit of the job that caught his fancy and wanting to knock off early when he got bored. Always poking into things that were above his paygrade, and talking endlessly about stuff like _dynamic systems_ and _color gradients_ when the rest of us wanted to get on with the job. And that stunt with Alpha Centauri - all right, making it work _was_ a little brilliant, but it also meant that suddenly the entire design team was rethinking everything. I wasn’t even surprised when he bragged about it tonight, because _of course_ he did that, it’s just like him, and the whole schedule was thrown off for ages but what did _he_ care, if he got to be clever? The foremen were always shuffling his assignments so nobody would be stuck with him for long. He was a_ menace_, is what he was!” She took Aziraphale’s hands between her own. “He’s _still_ a menace. To you.”

“I’m aware of that.” He rotated his hands to squeeze hers. “I _am_. But he’s not evil. Not in his essential nature.”

“He’s a _demon_!”

“A demon who likes children, who enjoys music, who hates human suffering, and - and who would never hurt me, knowingly - you saw that, didn’t you?”

She swallowed. “That was possibly the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen, and I was in Egypt for the plagues.”

“It disturbs me, too! He _suffers_ from it! If I’m kind to him he gets in deeper and avoiding him doesn’t seem to help and if - I don’t know how to help him.”

“Helping him isn’t your job!”

Aziraphale let go to rub his palms on his knees. “I know, but -“

“And he can’t be a hobby. This isn’t like writing down human stories! This is your _enemy._”

“My enemy. Who loves me. Could _you_ walk away from that?”

“Yes. Yes, I could. Because he’s not just _your_ enemy, he’s the enemy of _Heaven_. He’s outcast. Fallen. This travesty of love he’s projecting is corrupt! And this urge you’ve got to, to be the light illuminating his darkness - that’s Vanity. If the situations were reversed, that’s what you’d tell me. Isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shrugged. If their situations were reversed, who would he even _be?_

“You were the best teacher I had,” said Hylochiel, “the only one who gave us a good solid preparation for what it’d be like on the ground, because none of the others would admit so much as the possibility that angels could make mistakes, and you _assumed_ we all would. But I’ve figured out something, watching over humans, that you didn’t teach us, that I don’t think you understand yet, so it’s my turn. Our errors rise out of our virtues. Your virtue is Love, and your vice is that you Love too much.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Truth is sometimes.”

“But it’s _not_ true! I don’t, there’s lots of things I, I don’t love _enough_.”

“Name one.”

“Well - Sandalphon. For example. I can only ever feel love for Sandalphon if I focus on the abstract notion of him as a fellow angel and my brother in service. When I have to actually be_ around_ him all I want is to get away, as quickly as possible.”

“And then you feel bad about it.” The regularity of her features made her face look sterner than her voice sounded.

“Of course I do!”

“Then _stop_! _Nobody_ can stand being around Sandalphon, except Gabriel and Uriel! It doesn’t make you special!”

“Who said it did?”

“Look. Didn’t you tell us once to choose our battles? This is where I tell you to follow your own advice. It is so -“ She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “You have no idea how good it’s been, to come down from Heaven and experience the world the way you do for an afternoon. Nobody delights in the earth and sharing it with our charges like you. If you hadn’t been there to point out all the clever beautiful human touches that enhance the general splendor of the Temple, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it half so much. All those stories you have about your neighbors? Funny and illuminating! Your project for collecting their narrative traditions is fascinating. And I absolutely understand how much fun you have, curing fallen arches and fleabites, parceling out good dreams, all of that. But I can also see bags under your eyes. Jerusalem has over 8000 people in it! You can’t afford to care equally about every single person, and you particularly can’t afford to care about the sufferings of the _Serpent of Eden_. You’ll wear yourself out!”

Arguments crowded thick in his throat. He swallowed them all. “What would you advise, then, dear girl?”

“It’s not your style and I know you’d hate it, but you_ do_ have a flaming sword. Next time you see him, no Truces. Smite him.”

“He’d only discorporate and come back angry.”

“But I bet he’d stop tempting you into Truces and drinks and swapping miracle tips.”

“I - yes, I, I expect he would.” _He would be betrayed and heartbroken_. “I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you for listening to me. I’ve been fretting about it for, for quite some time now. It’s not an easy topic to bring up. With, you know, anyone from the head office.”

“Oh, no, _that_ would be a disaster! Gabriel would have apoplexy, and he doesn’t even put veins in his corporations!” She laughed a faint shadow of the laugh they’d shared earlier about Gabriel’s lack of finesse with human matters. “I need hardly assure you, I won’t mention this conversation to anyone! And if it ever comes up, we definitely trapped Crawly and foiled his evil plans.”

“If I didn’t trust your discretion, the evening would have gone very differently. Not that, not that I would ask you to shirk your duty to, to cover for me! If you should ever, if someone thinks to, to ask specific questions -”

“The situation won’t arise! Why should it? You’re the most experienced agent in the field! Heaven relies on you - as it should.” She stood. “Speaking of Heaven, dawn in the Caucasus -“

“Goodness, yes, I’ve kept you far too long.” He stood also. “Take care, dear girl. I hope you’ll soon get this corporation into better order.”

“I’m sure I will, thanks to you. Farewell, dear teacher! Don’t worry so much!”

She did not fly away, but used the new technique (which he quite envied) of flicking her unmanifested wings and vanishing, to appear (if she did it right) much closer to or even precisely in her desired location. Aziraphale tidied away the tallow, trimmed his lamp, and collected the remains of the nostalgic snack they’d shared earlier, sending the day’s spoilage to the nearest dungheap and drawing warmth out of the buttermilk to transfer to the honeycake, so that they were almost as good as new.

He shouldn’t have allowed the incident to happen, or discussed the Crawly problem with her. She had troubles of her own, and, and, well, she didn’t _quite_ understand. Even if he still had his sword, smite _Crawly_? She could as well have advised him to strangle a baby in the cradle! Not that there was anything childlike or innocent about him, but that, in a very real sense, he was helpless.

Almost as helpless as Aziraphale, himself.

He licked honey off his fingers, cleaned the remaining stickiness with a napkin that also served as a penwiper, and tried to remember what he’d been doing when Hylochiel arrived. As opposed to remembering the sheer pleasure of breaking up that pending bar brawl, just like old times, two finger-snapping miracles as one. Or finger hooked around finger, thigh sprawled against thigh, shoulder casually pressing shoulder. Or the heart-stopping truth warm in his ear: _You missed me._

_Stop it, Aziraphale!_

He began mixing new ink, singing one of the evening’s songs under his breath, giving himself extra vocal apparatus so he could hum the zither parts:

_I slept, but my heart was awake._   
_A sound! My beloved is knocking._   
_Open to me, my sister, my love,_   
_my dove, my perfect one,_   
_for my head is wet with dew,_   
_my locks with the drops of the night._

_I had put off my garment; how could I put it on?_   
_I had bathed my feet; how could I soil them?_   
_My beloved put his hand to the latch,_   
_and my heart was thrilled within me._

_-30-_


	2. Transfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had meant each installment to be done-in-one, but found I couldn’t proceed till I wrote an immediate sequel to “Senses.” So a second chapter is called for; but it doesn’t fit the overall title. Life is rough. Turns out confiding in Hylochiel had some consequences, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashishim - Like falafel, but made with lentils instead of chickpeas.

“Excuse me. You’re blocking the last of the daylight. If you’ll move aside a step I’ll be with you soon.” Aziraphale, intent on translating the widow Bakura’s words into ink, did not look up.

“Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Gabriel boomed.

Aziraphale’s pen skidded, spoiling three words and disrupting the blessing. Bakura squeaked in dismay. Drat and botheration and what was _Gabriel_ doing here? Had Hylochiel -? No, she’d _promised_ \- well not _exactly_ promised - and why on earth did Gabriel have to show up looking like a wealthy Babylonian? What was Sandalphon _thinking_, letting him come down to Jerusalem looking like that? He could almost feel the ripples of gossip spreading across the market. _Not my friend!_ He wanted to shout._ Not really Babylonian! I’m not a spy!_ Instead he forced a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry, sir, you surprised me. And now I’ve got to start this letter over, so, so please, go into the back and make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right with you!”

Gabriel looked - not exactly affronted - but daunting enough that Bakura said: “I can come back in the morning.”

“Certainly not,” said Aziraphale, who knew how busy her mornings were; but Gabriel drowned him out: “Good idea! You do that!” She scurried away. No one, alas, knew the signs of Important Men Not to Be Trifled With better than widows.

Aziraphale curbed his tongue, arranged his face into a pleasant expression, and ushered Gabriel into the booth, where he took up most of the space and looked disapproving. Aziraphale let down the front awning (smiling nervously at his neighbors’ open curiosity) and brought in his writing desk and stool. Gabriel examined a stick of bright blue sealing wax. “You live like this?” The stick snapped in his hand.

“I’ve found the scribe persona useful in, in keeping track of what’s going on, and where my help is needed, and - oh, but of course this is all detailed in my reports, excuse me, with the front closed it can get a little stuffy, let me open this shutter here - _excuse me_ \- if you’d sit down, sir, the bench is very sturdy - and I’ll light the lamp -“

Gabriel, still standing in the exact center of the tiny booth, laughed and glowed with heavenly light in the dimness. “Don’t tell me you rely on burning animal fat, with the amount of power you draw down in a year?” He dropped the sealing wax into the unlit brazier and picked up the skin of wine hanging from the handle of the cabinet, turning it over and squishing it between his hands.

“It, it fits in better.”

“Bit smelly, though, isn’t it?” Gabriel dropped the wineskin on top of the cabinet and picked up a jumping jack Aziraphale’d bought in order to encourage the seller, and hadn’t found a suitable recipient for yet: a well-made toy, with joints at elbows, knees, and neck as well as arms and shoulders. Gabriel pulled the string, laughed in surprise when the limbs contorted, and dropped it with a clatter onto the scroll chest. “Such clever little dears, the humans,” he said. “But do you really have to be so _shabby_ to fit with them? How do you bear to show your face in the Palace when we need you there?”

“Yes, well, it’s not as if I can’t spruce up my corporation on those occasions, and for the day-to-day stuff, it doesn’t do to call attention to myself. The eyes are sufficiently conspicuous and there’s a certain mistrust of foreigners but as long as I’m sufficiently _humble_ \- and people will pounce on quite small discrepancies in presentation, I’m afraid I’ll have quite a, my work cut out, accounting for a personal call from a Babylonian in these tense times -“

“Oh, _that_ won’t be necessary!” Gabriel slapped Aziraphale’s back, knocking the rest of his explanations back down his throat. “I’ve seen enough. You won’t be here tomorrow. You’ve got a transfer!”

“I - I do?” Aziraphale dropped onto his stool, as the easiest way to get some breathing room between him and Gabriel’s overwhelming presence. The move proved to be a tactical error, however, forcing him to tuck his feet underneath the stool to keep from getting them mixed up with his boss’s, and now approximately twice as much Gabriel loomed above him as before.

“Absolutely! _Not_ that we’re not happy with your work. We all know how valuable your experience is to the operation. But Hylochiel said some concerning things in her most recent report, and now I see the situation, I find the concerns justified.”

“Why, why, what have you seen?” Aziraphale gabbled as his mind spun into blind panic. _Hylochiel betrayed us, me, after all, Gabriel’s been looking in the Records finally, he’s here to smite Crawly and carry me off for discipline and_ \- “I assure you, whatever Hylochiel thinks, thinks she saw, I’m fine, everything’s under control, I -“

“But I can see it for myself,” said Gabriel, leaning so that the heavenly light shone directly into Aziraphale’s eyes and forced him to squint. “She said you were overworked and so tired, you have bags under your eyes like a human, and you _do_ -“

“Camo, camoflage! My neighbors can, can see me burning the midnight oil! I can’t look as if -“

“You’re so hunched over from all that scribbling you can’t sit up straight anymore -“

“I, I most certainly _can_, only it would look odd, you see -“ Aziraphale sat up so straight he had to adjust some vertebrae.

“She thinks you’re run ragged from looking after so many people and thwarting Crawly at the same time, and I concur. Now, I know what you’re going to say -“ (A neat trick, given that Aziraphale had no words in his mouth, and only a frantic gasping in the portion of his mind where his intentions normally dwelled.) “And you’re right. Any time anyone but you encounters the Serpent of Eden the score starts going against us. We all appreciate your expertise in that area. But not even you can be expected to go head to head with him forever without losing your edge. You’re no good to us exhausted.”

Aziraphale, feeling as if half Jerusalem had crowded into the booth with him, remembered the soul-deep exhaustion of the Flood, and how Gabriel had shipped him off to the Andes before he’d replenished his personal miracle reserve; but he could hardly bring that up when his boss was clearly trying to be sympathetic and reasonable now. “Truly, I’m not - of course I’m happy to serve in any capacity I’m called to, but I assure you -“

Gabriel weighted him down with a hand on his shoulder that was no doubt meant to be comforting. “Hey, this is not a vote of no-confidence! Far from it! I have a great posting all ready for you! Far fewer people, your eyes and hair will fit right in, fresh air and exercise, a chance to do some smiting and work the kinks out of your sword arm. There’s a place up in the north, way up north, in the, I think it’s called taiga? The population has a problem with demonic possession. I heard there’s even a possessed bear! It’ll be a change of pace, get the ichor moving again!”

Aziraphale reached for the only possible glimmers of hope. “Oh, but I have no experience as an exorcist and Crawly -“

“It’ll be fine! You’ll figure out exorcism like that!” Gabriel snapped his fingers. “And if we put two angels on that nasty old Serpent, that should put a spoke in his wheel, eh?”

“But, I mean, really, _possessed bears_? I haven’t, I’m out of practice -“ His sword, they’d find out about his _sword_!

“What’s the worst that could happen? Sure, you could discorporate, and it’d probably be uncomfortable, but so what? Everyone knows you’re the only angel in the field still with the original issue. We’ll get you a brand new body and a brand new start! With upgrades! C’mon! You’ve earned this! I would _love_ to take this posting myself but you know how it is, duty calls, we don’t choose our roles, our roles choose us.”

Aziraphale mustered a weak smile. “Oh. Well. If, if, this is how Heaven calls me to serve of course I’ll, I’ll be glad to. How long do I have to wrap up my affairs?” Typically he got a week. Typically, he was not personally informed by Gabriel.

“_What_ affairs? Affairs are for humans! Grab your flaming sword and we’ll go straight there!”

No. Nonononononono, he couldn’t, not - He hadn’t flown with Gabriel since being pulled out of Eden, gripped too tight and bombarded by booming platitudes, and and and and anyway anyway _tonight_? Impossible! He shook his head violently. “I can’t!”

“Sure you can! No need to wait around here. This base of operation simply isn’t up to snuff.”

Suddenly Aziraphale was glad Bakura’s letter had been spoiled. “But, but I’m under obligation to meet my client in the morning!”

“She can find another scribe.”

“No, she can’t! I’ve got the cheapest rates! And, and besides, angels can’t break their words. I told her I’d be with her in the morning! Plus I have, I have, half a dozen little matters, it would be hardship and confusion to a number of people if I vanished overnight! And and it would put Crawly on his guard -“ Crawly’d been in a peculiar mood last time they crossed paths. Aziraphale had no idea what he’d do if his familiar angel disappeared on him right now, except that it would be dramatic, and painful for somebody. (Probably Crawly.)

Gabriel laughed and chucked Aziraphale under the chin, an action so gobsmacking his reflexes gave out and he couldn’t even pull back from the touch. “All right, all right, if it’s that important to you! You can have until this time tomorrow. But I don’t know that I can come get you then. It might just be the old ladder down, ladder up, ladder down.”

“That’s, my goodness, that’s_ quite_ all right! I wouldn’t want to put you out _at all_, you can’t imagine how, how, how honored I am that you came to tell me this in person, I am used to the ladder, really, personal conveyance would be, be much too kind of you and any night this coming week the ladder will be _fine_ -“

“Good old Aziraphale, always too modest for your own good. I don’t think you realize how much us desk jockeys in Heaven appreciate the good work of the angels in the field. Sure, _technically,_ I’m your boss and have better things to do than ferry you around, but in the end, aren’t we all servants of the Lord, working together to bring Her plans on Earth to fruition?”

“I don’t mind the ladder, honestly, I like it, the the detour to Heaven gives me a chance to say hi to everybody and and so on. Sabbath starts tomorrow sundown, so if you give me till everyone is inside lighting the candles that will be perfect, thank you.”

“If that’s the way you want to do it. Everybody’ll be happy to see you looking in up there. We miss you! I was just saying to Sandalphon the other day, _I bet if he were here Aziraphale could knock this paperwork out in no time and then we could all go sparring or wrestling, he must’ve learned some fun new tricks on earth._ Sandalphon’s very fond of you, you know.”

“No, I, um, I did not know that.” Sandalphon was_ not_ fond of him and Aziraphale was suddenly positive that he didn’t know Gabriel was here; that Gabriel had gone to Babylon and taken this side trip without telling his personal staff. Somehow this thought made everything geometrically worse.

Gabriel clapped him on the back again. “All right, then, we’ll see you this time tomorrow. You get that stuff wrapped up quick as you can, because tomorrow night is the latest we can push this. This posting will do you so much good! You’ll be a new angel in no time!”

Aziraphale had to sit for several minutes, wringing his hands and breathing the cool evening air that rushed in when Gabriel left, before he could even begin to think straight. When his pulse finally slowed, he started mentally listing the people he needed to see come morning. Almost every human contact he had would be busy putting things in order for the Sabbath. Proper good-byes and the redistribution of his property couldn’t be allowed to intrude too much on their time. Wait, he didn’t have to dispose of everything piecemeal. Who was it had a son wanting to set up on his own in the same line? And there was no need to make poor Bakura come back. He could go visit her tonight. She could have her letter and his excess lamp fat, too.

Aziraphale formulated a story about an old Babylonian business acquaintance and news from his mysterious homeland on the way over. Since Bakura and her oldest daughter thought they knew more about his mysterious homeland than anybody else did (thanks to the time they’d fixed on him as an acceptable husband for a daughter who was running out of options, when he’d had to invent distant ties to render himself impossible), their reactions fleshed out his cover story much better than he could have done it on his own. Everyone got a little weepy over the scanty meal they insisted on his sharing. He even managed, with the assistance of the practical-minded second daughter, to cache some silver where she could pretend to find it once he was well and truly gone; not much in itself, but enough, with luck, to tide them over till the brother-in-law responded to the letter, the carefully-crafted blessing on which should be enough to recall him to his duty, if it didn’t soften his heart into mush.

It was full dark when he took his final leave of them for Departure Prep, Phase 2. He’d accumulated a fair amount of silver in the normal course of his business, more than should be dumped in any one place, so off he sallied to the worst part of town, discreetly distributing money and miracles. He could hardly do anything so flashy as healing the lame and blind, but a collective night of good rest, pleasant dreams, mysterious vermin die-offs, plus some dropped coins, would leave the restless care-ridden populace a little better off in the wake of his passing.

Turning his situation over and over in his mind, Aziraphale didn’t become conscious of being followed until after he’d turned down the narrow alley that would cut short his route to his final charity drop-off. _You would think the footpads of Jerusalem would have learned by now, but perhaps they don’t talk to each other afterward,_ he thought crossly. He had no idea how he would cope with demon-possessed bears in the taiga, but one or two humans, however armed, were scarcely a problem. Besides, of the two auras up ahead, _one_ was nothing to fear. He slowed to let the one behind catch up, sidestepped the knife, seized the weapon hand, gently depressed a pressure point so that the knife dropped to the packed dirt of the alley, and pulled the would-be assailant into a headlock. “Young man, _what_ would your mother think of this behavior?”

The footpad, approximately the same size and shape as Gabriel, was too distracted by his surprise at being unable to break the headlock and by the soft sensation enfolding his heart to answer.

In the darkness further down, a scuffle; then muffled hissing.

“Poverty is a great evil under which to labor, I know,” Aziraphale continued. “But aren’t you better equipped to deal with it than many who stay honest are? Wouldn’t it be more satisfactory to make your mother and - oh, goodness, your wife is pregnant, congratulations! Wouldn’t you rather be making her, and your mother, and your future offspring proud, by using this considerable strength in some upright pursuit? I know finding work can be hard, but lurking in dark alleys is beneath you! Shh, shh, it’s all right.” The evil in the man’s soul, though capable of greater development, was not all that dire yet, mostly bound up with Pride rather than Avarice or Wrath. Yes, this was a hopeful line of suggestion, and the fact that humiliation was private (as his partner scurried off like a rat) meant that Pride had more scope than Wrath did. By the time Aziraphale released him he was almost done sobbing, and stumbled away with the good-faith intention of consulting his rabbi on how to deal with the night’s existing ill-gotten gains and live a better life hereto.

“My way’s faster,” said Crawly, from the shadows. “I convinced mine he needed richer marks in a better part of town ages ago.”

“I didn’t ask for your help or advice.”

“Nope, I’m generous that way. You do know there’s no guarantee this fellow’s reform’ll stick for more than a day or two?”

“That’s up to him.” Aziraphale resumed his walk.

Crawly slithered into step beside him. “Someday when I happen upon you being beset by two at once, I’ll sit and watch, see how you deal with it. I bet it’s a good show. Hard to talk one down when the other one’s attacking you.”

“I _have_ two arms. Three could be a challenge, but they don’t tend to come in threes.”

“The step down from half-share to third-share’s too big. Point of diminishing returns on a single mark.”

The alley opened up into a street, where the buildings didn’t block the new-risen moon, and cool white light glittered off the embroidery on Crawly’s robe. Warm yellow light, music, and the thump of dancing feet spilled out from a dingy wineshop several feet away. “I was hoping I’d run into you,” said Aziraphale, at the same moment that Crawly said: “I’m glad I found you.” Both stopped, then said as one: “You go first.” Crawly inevitably won the subsequent staredown of politeness.

“I’d been looking for you, in a way, but now you’re here, I don’t know how to start.” Aziraphale led the way down the street toward an apparently abandoned building.

“Just spit it out. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“I’m not angry at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Who said I was worried? You’re the worrier, here.”

“Only, we parted rather abruptly, last time, and I’m being transferred, and - and I may not come back.”

“Oh, sure you will. Or I’ll move on and we’ll run into each other again. We always do.”

“Possibly, but - oh, I _shouldn’t_ tell you this.”

“You shouldn’t tease me with half-statements! That’s cruel, that is. Against your angelic code.”

“My angelic code doesn’t apply to demons.”

“If you say so.”

Did Crawly know how distressing it was to hear him sound so flat and unhopeful? “All right. So. Apparently it’s a, potentially, dangerous assignment. Demonic bears, that sort of thing.”

“_Demonic bears_?” Well, he didn’t sound flat now! “Huh. Wonder who that could be? Doesn’t sound quite kosher of your lot, sending _you_ after somebody like that. Mind, I’d pay good money to see you wrestle an ordinary bear, and make a profit from the rubes who bet against you, but with a demon in there? No, angel, no, even those idiots in Heaven have to know, they throw you into the ring with a demon bear, you’re getting discorporated.”

“I know. That may be the point.”

Crawly was silent, as Aziraphale, pausing at the chosen building, put his hand to his purse and quietly miracled the few remaining coins into the possession of the beggars asleep inside. They walked together down to the next corner, where Crawly said, in a tone of barely contained fury: “Hylochiel ratted you out.”

“She didn’t. She wouldn’t! There’s nothing to rat me out about! But she was worried about me when she left. She said that I wear myself out. That I, that I care too much.” Aziraphale chose the street that would bear him home.

“Well, she’s not wrong there, but you won’t learn to care_ less_ wrestling demon bears! She said that to Heaven, did she?”

“Yes, in her report to Gabriel. He came to see me himself.”

_“Ngk!”_

“Yes. He was very, um, jolly about it all. As if he thought he was offering me a holiday. But, I’ve heard these rumors. That. Um. You see, since Michael basically condemned me to live on Earth, this long sojourn is technically a punishment, which Gabriel can’t mitigate. Not that I ever experienced Earth as a punishment. That’s the Heaven’s eye view, so to speak. But, as I understand it, after I finally discorporate, along with a new body I’ll be provided with, with new wings.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want them!” Aziraphale wailed. “Not if it means an uncomfortable new body and going back to Heaven and serving there instead of here!” He listened while the echoes of his own voice circulated in his head. “What I want or don’t want doesn’t matter, I know, but - I feel it all the same.”

“You’re_ allowed_ to want things, angel. Once in awhile, you’re even allowed to_ get_ them.”

“I’m really not.” They passed a residence raucous with music and laughter; a wedding party, among people whose opportunities for rejoicing were too few to be moderate when they got one.

“It’d be all right in the long run, though,” said Crawly. “I mean, think about it. You know a lot about bodies. You’ll break in the new one all right, so it’s comfortable, and you’ll be able to fly back and forth on your own. They’d be crazy to keep you and all your practical experience up there rusting!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s a rumor - I’ve heard - that that that Gabriel wants me in Heaven.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I don’t know. Just - wants.”

“Gnkg! He_ fancccccccies_ you?”

“Ugh! No! That’s disgusting! I don’t - how can you even _think_ such a, he wouldn’t, that would be - _ugh_!” Aziraphale wiped the memory of Gabriel’s finger on his chin away, but it lingered.

“Sorry! Angel! Demon! Dissgussting, that’sss my job, you know me, brain always has to Go There!” Crawly practically went into spasms, momentarily unable to make forward progress with the force of his effort to take the suggestion back.

Aziraphale waited for him. “I’m sure, obviously Gabriel means well, but I don’t know _why_ he wants me, so I don’t have any idea how long it would take to talk myself back down here where I belong and even if I - Look, where you are, where you spend your time, that changes you. Earth’s changed me. And you. And all the other Guardians and tempting demons, but you and me most of all, simply because we’ve spent the most time here. That’s, that’s the whole reason we can even _have_ this conversation. You, we’re enemies, but at this point we know each other better than, than anyone else can. But if I discorporate, and Gabriel keeps me in Heaven long enough - Heaven will change me again. Even if I come back, the next time you see me,_ I may be a different person_.” He risked a glance at Crawly, fearing what he might see.

Crawly’s eyes were pale in moonlight, and calm as moonlight. “That’s a _lot_ of ifs, angel. And I refuse to worry about any of them. Because you know what? You’re _not_ going to discorporate.”

“I will. Someday. It’s only a matter of time!”

“No, it’s not. It’s a matter of Aziraphale. You survived the _Flood_, angel!”

“You helped me!”

“I didn’t, but even if I did, so what? You flutter the baby blues and litter the world with cheery smiles and people want to help you. That’s one reason you go around not discorporating! You’re strong and you’re tough and you’re smart -“

“I’m _not_, though! Not the kind of smart that wins fights with superior force! I don’t like hurting my fellow creatures. I hesitate. I panic under pressure. If I don’t have a chance to plan and to practice, I don’t know what to do!”

“Didn’t you do something stupid brave and mighty during the War, though? They didn’t give you a flaming sword because you looked good in the uniform.”

“I blocked a door! That’s all! I stood in a doorway, and when one of your lot tried to get through I just, I didn’t let them. No strategy, only stubborn.”

“Aziraphale. C’mon. Breathe. Stubborn’s good. Stubborn was enough in the Flood. If you could share out your stubborn there’d be no point tempting mankind within a hundred furlongs of you. You’re _not_ going to discorporate. Gabriel _doesn’t_ get to lock you up in a golden cage. You’ll make this demon bear, if there even _is_ one, look foolish. And I’ll run rings around the world kicking up trouble till they send you back to me, because we _all_ know you’re the only angel who can handle me.” Crawly hovered, hands spread out to his sides, simultaneously reaching to and out of all danger of touching Aziraphale accidentally.

The love pulsing out from him was so different from the crushing weight of Gabriel’s heavenly attention, Aziraphale wanted to wrap himself up in it. Any second now he’d be asking Crawly to hug him, and that would never do! He breathed in and out, so focused on the process of calming that he didn’t realize he was speaking until he heard himself blurt out: “They’re fielding two agents against you this time. Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have told you that!”

Crawly grinned. “No, you shouldn’t have! Don’t worry. I don’t care how many angels they throw at me, I’ll still dance rings around ‘em. You suppose Gabriel’d drag you back here where it’s safe faster if I discorporated a few?”

“You’ll do no such thing, please!”

“All right, I won’t.” Crawly waved his hands airily, but Aziraphale realized, with an uneasily pleasant shock, that he meant it. “Discorporation isn’t as much fun as making them look like idiots, anyway.”

“They may _not_ be idiots. Someday, Heaven will field someone against you who pays attention to what I tell them about you.”

“Oh? And what do you tell them about me, pray tell?”

“That’s classified information. You’ve already tempted too much out of me.” He smiled to soften the refusal. “Oh! You had something you wanted to say to me! What was it?”

“What? Oh, right. It doesn’t matter now. Not if you’re leaving. When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow evening, when the humans start lighting the candles.”

“Yikes, that’s soon. You hungry?”

“I don’t get hungry.”

“Lying’s a sin, angel. There’s a commandment about it and everything. I know a woman, makes the best ashishim in the city, and she and her daughters stay up all night.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’m not going to a brothel with you!”

“It’s not a_ brothel._ Exactly. It’s cutting edge. And the ashishim is like nothing on earth.”

“It must be spicy, at least, if you can taste it to recommend it, but I’ll just have to miss out. I have a lot to do.”

“Oh, very well.” They were at the market, the scribe booth a shadow among shadows. “Good night.”

“Farewell, Crawly. If we never meet again -“

“We _will_!”

“You’re the best enemy an angel could hope for. I hope my successors accord you the respect you deserve - even as they hound you from the earth.” This was not what Crawly wanted from him, Aziraphale knew, but it was what he had.

He was only a few steps away when Crawly called after him. “Oi, angel, I figured it out!”

“Figured what out?”

“The demon with the bear! No names. That wouldn’t be sporting. But if I’m right, his particular sins are Gluttony and Sloth.”

“_Crawly -!_ You could get into serious trouble!”

“Shut up! I’m thwarting an archangel.”

So they parted, and Aziraphale did not look back.

\---  
_**Advice for Thwarting the Demon, Crawly, aka the Serpent of Eden**_  
_His sins are Sloth and Vanity. Take advantage of his long sleeps, and do not try to keep up with him when he wakes from one. He is moody, impulsive, and reckless. Don’t force a confrontation. The upper and lower mass ranges of his serpent form have not been determined. His human form is more limited in mass but can change its details, including clothing (much of which is his skin), in a heartbeat. Serpentine eyes and walk will always identify him. He is intelligent, and most dangerous when bored. Distract him. He enjoys sleeping, drinking, music, novelties, gadgets, arguments, and children. Therefore, keep an especially close eye on craftsmen, rebellious youth, and rabbis. He’ll make a game of Hell, and Heaven, too, so learn the rules of whatever game he’s playing, but don’t get sucked into it yourself. _


End file.
